


To Paint the Lily

by peevee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, August December?, F/M, John is a sly dog, not quite May December
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-31
Updated: 2013-05-31
Packaged: 2017-12-13 13:58:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,944
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/825070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peevee/pseuds/peevee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John meets Mummy. </p><p>They have quite a few mutual interests, as it turns out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To Paint the Lily

**Author's Note:**

> This story was pretty much 100% inspired by a) my headcanon casting of Helen Mirren as Mummy Holmes, and therefore b) [this picture](http://media.tumblr.com/tumblr_ligs2knyTk1qbacj7.jpg). Because _damn_.
> 
> Also tormenting Sherlock is the best fun.
> 
> Thank you ghoulkitten, as always :)

She had Mycroft’s nose.

Well, Mycroft had _her_ nose, he supposed. And Sherlock her pale, catlike eyes. He should have known better, really, than to expect a little old lady. A Mrs Hudson. It _would_ take someone like her to produce _someones_ like Sherlock and Mycroft. 

She couldn’t have been more than a few inches shorter than her eldest son, but with her hair piled in an elegant snowy heap on top of her head she almost matched him. That, and the way both brothers seemed to wilt slightly in her presence. 

“Mummy,” said Mycroft, shifting a little on the doorstep. Sherlock scuffed his foot against the gravel of the driveway. John blinked, having apparently witnessed their regression into awkward teenagers before his very eyes.

“Mycroft,” she said, the corner of her mouth moving ever so slightly, “Sherlock. And you must be John.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Holmes. And happy birthday.”

“It’s Violet. One doesn’t like to be reminded that one is an old woman, John.” She wasn’t smiling, but she looked so much like Sherlock for a moment that he couldn’t help the grin that twitched at his mouth.

“Violet, of course,” he said, inclining his head. She held his gaze for a second, raising one elegant eyebrow, and then turned and stalked back into the house, obviously expecting them to follow. Mycroft climbed the stairs sedately while Sherlock picked up his bags with an agitated jerkiness.

“John, _please_ try not to flirt with my mother. It’s disturbing.”

“I’m being _nice_ , Sherlock. Just because you don’t know the meaning of the word.”

“Ugh,” said Sherlock. “Well don’t do it in front of me. It makes me nauseous.”

“She _is_ pretty hot, though,” John said contemplatively.

“Not! Listening!”

Mycroft, ahead of them, faltered only slightly on the top step.

 

-

 

“It’s my mother’s 70th birthday this weekend,” Sherlock said. “I am expected.”

“Alright?” John said. “Um. Happy birthday to your mum, I suppose?”

Sherlock swallowed, as if he could taste something awful. “You are…invited,” he said eventually. “She would like to meet you.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn’t want to impose—”

“It doesn’t do to refuse my mother.” Sherlock turned his gaze on John. “You’ll come.”

His tone brooked no disagreement. John sighed, and went to the kitchen to make tea. He wondered if the brown suit he had still fit him.

“That brown suit is awful,” called Sherlock. “You can wear the grey.”

Smug twat.

 

-

 

Sherlock’s house was homey inside, for one so posh looking. It wasn’t a manor, exactly, but it had that _look_ of a house owned by people with a lot of money. The room he was in was decorated in tasteful shades of green and white; there was a painted white bed, a chest of drawers, wallpaper patterned with twining leaves. He had a view of the enormous garden too, a soft green lawn stretching off into a cluster of trees. A patio, where Sherlock sat poking at his phone, ignoring the group of men wrestling with a large gazebo nearby.

John hung his suit on the door, smoothing it carefully. It was a pale grey, the fabric slightly glossy, and he felt self-conscious wearing it. It was slim fitting and a bit too sleek and he didn’t know what had possessed him to buy it in the first place. He was _middle aged_ , not some lithe 20 year old who could get away with wearing whatever he wanted. Sherlock had hidden the brown suit, though, so he’d had little choice in the matter. 

By the time he’d showered, dithered over a tie and polished his shoes, he could hear unfamiliar voices drifting up from the garden, the gentle lilt of people making small talk. He decided against the tie, neatened his hair, and stepped into the hall, where Violet was approaching from the far end. 

“John.”

“Violet. You look…stunning.”

She did. 70 she may have been, but Violet Holmes clearly did not let that put her off wearing whatever she wanted. Her dress was a floor length, strapless concoction of gold satin, scandalously low at the front and extraordinarily tight at the waist. John wasn’t certain how she was breathing. Her hair was still piled elegantly on top of her head, and her mouth was a bright bow of scarlet. Here was a woman who didn’t care one jot about propriety. John felt an involuntary grin creep across his face, suddenly glad he wasn’t in drab brown. He _liked_ Sherlock’s mum. 

“I know,” she said, with a slow glance up and down him, mouth curving into a sliver of a smile. He bit his lip, feeling the tips of his ears heat.

“My sons are so very easily scandalised.” She stepped a little bit closer. He could smell a hint of her perfume, powder and roses. From the garden came the sounds of a band warming up. “They are _such_ fun to tease.”

“Well,” he managed. “Who am I to deny you entertainment on your birthday?”

-

The look on Mycroft’s face, as they’d stepped into the garden arm in arm. The look on _Sherlock’s_ face. It was worth three hours in the car, both of them bickering at each other. Oh, it was worth all the times he’d ever wanted to strangle either of them. 

He suspected Violet felt the same way. He was whirled around amongst Sherlock’s various relatives, cooed and simpered over as Violet kept one hand in the small of his back, in the crook of his elbow, pressed delicately against his chest as she giggled at him.

He topped up her champagne glass, and she kissed him on the cheek, almost certainly leaving a smudge of red. He went over to sit beside Sherlock, who glared at him as if hoping he could kill John with his brain.

“Lovely party,” he said.

“If you—” Sherlock started, then, “I _truly_ hope—”

“Yes?” said John. He took a sip of champagne. Sherlock’s face was really quite red. 

“You,” he began again, pointing at John. “You can’t—”

John smiled.

“Argh!” said Sherlock, throwing up his hands and stalking away to where Mycroft was standing, glowering ominously. 

Violet slid into the seat opposite him.

“I think we’ve made Sherlock incoherent,” he said.

“ _Wonderful_ ,” she sighed. “I’m so very pleased to have met you, John.”

She leaned forward a little, across the table, and John fought to keep his eyes above her neck. He didn’t fight too hard. She winked at him.

From the other side of the gazebo, a loud, choking noise could be heard. 

A little bit later John found himself wandering out into the dark of the garden, humming the first few bars of _Mrs Robinson_ as he passed Mycroft. He’d never seen someone’s nostrils move independently of each other. 

-

“So,” said Violet, sliding in beside him on the little wooden bench. He stared up towards the night sky for a while longer before turning to look at her. The sounds of the party drifted down the garden towards them.

“John. Sherlock’s little friend.”

He laughed. It made them sound like naughty schoolboys, getting up to mischief when the teachers weren’t looking. It was kind of accurate, he supposed.

“That’s me,” he said. “Thank you for inviting me, by the way. You didn’t have to.”

“Of course I did,” she said, dismissive. “I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Sherlock?” he said, frowning.

“Mycroft.”

“Ah, of course.”

“I don’t know _how_ Sherlock’s kept you,” said Violet, studying him with those pale, almond-shaped eyes. “You’re rather sweet, aren’t you?”

He looked down, to where her hand was sliding just a little bit up his thigh.

He swallowed. “Well. Only sometimes.”

“Dr. Watson, I do believe you’re flirting with me.”

“An…excellent deduction,” he breathed. 

-

Two steps inside his room and she had him up against the wall. He gasped a little, not used to someone so much taller than him having him pinned. She smelled of perfume and champagne, and she was so _warm_ against him.

“ _Violet._ ” 

“Hello, sweetheart,” she murmured, and _ah_ , her hand was cupping him through his suit. He moaned, too loud. 

“Hel-lo,” she said again, giving him a little squeeze. “Oh, aren’t you just _lovely_.”

“Oh,” he panted. A warm, slim hand gripped one of his and moved it up and over one of her breasts, which were almost spilling out of the scant containment of her dress.

“How do you even get out of this thing?” he managed, sliding his hands down to her waist and pulling her against him. He felt like a teenager, fumbling at his first bra strap. He _liked_ it. 

She slipped out of his grip and slid her hands behind her back and with one quick movement the entire dress dropped to the floor in a flurry of gold, leaving her in underwear and a pair of spindly stilettos, which she kicked off impatiently. 

“Like that,” she said, before dragging him towards her and throwing him down on his bed. He sat up and chucked his jacket to the floor, toeing off his shoes and pulling the suit trousers off. She was on him before he managed the shirt.

“Mm,” she hummed, crawling over him in just a pair of silky looking knickers and a strapless bra. “Sherlock’s little friend.” She drew a finger up the line of his cock, rubbing a little at the tip and making his mouth drop open.

“Violet, please, I—” 

“Shh,” she said, obviously enjoying his squirming. She yanked his boxers off and pushed his shirt up enough to give him a little tug on the nipples. 

“God,” he groaned, arching back, feeling the delicate touch of her thumb over his cock. Then he looked up, and her eyes were fixed on his as she pulled her knickers to one side, nudged him slick against her and then sank down in one slow, delicious slide. 

“Jesus,” he said, hands flying to her hips. “Oh, god, Violet.”

“That’s it,” she said, finally breathless. She moaned as he slowly rolled his hips, then more sharply as he flipped them over and pushed in deep. Her white hair was falling down, spreading all over the pillow. Her red lips were smudged. “God, you’re gorgeous,” he panted, kissing her. Fucking her. He braced himself over her and thrust inside, gasping at the feel of her, so fucking hot and wet around his dick. She pushed back into him and wrapped her legs around his waist. 

“Come on. Harder, yes, _yes_ ,” she hissed. “Oh, that’s _perfect_. Good, good boy.”

“Can I make you come?” John breathed, “Do you want to—”

“Stay deep,” she panted, “and come here.”

He collapsed over her, tilted her hips up and ground in deeply, slow pushes inwards until she was moaning almost constantly and then suddenly she tensed, and there, god, there, he felt her clenching around him, legs squeezing him tight so he couldn’t move out of her. He changed the angle as soon as she relaxed, pulled almost entirely out and within half a minute was coming so hard he almost bit through his lip.

-

“You can stay, if you like,” John said, hand behind his head as he watched her slide her dress back on and twist her hair up.

“I know,” she said. “It’s my house.”

She picked up her little sequinned bag, winked at him, and slid out into the hall. He grinned at the ceiling.

-

“So,” he said, half an hour into the deathly silent journey back to London. “Is there going to be another one next year?”

They didn’t quite go into the back of the car in front, but it was a close thing.


End file.
